


Earworms

by LHasty



Category: Slender Man Mythos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 08:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18362360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LHasty/pseuds/LHasty





	Earworms

It is a remarkably even playing field.

They don’t know that, though. More accurately, they don't get that, don’t understand that. It’s not their fault, of course. They are humans and for as dangerously intelligent as the human race is? They often can’t see beyond what they believe. It’s very hard to accept certain facts.

For example, they are under the distinct impression that It’s stupid. It isn’t. Not one bit. However, It is slow. Deliberate. Why rush, after all? When you’ve got nothing - have had nothing - but time? You learn to be patient. You learn to slow down, watch how things play out. Killing prey, only to find out that it tastes foul? 

Well. No one likes that.

Not even Him.

Ah, and that’s another thing. They are under the impression that It is a He - to the point that even It is starting to think It’s a He. It wasn’t entirely sure when It started to appear this way…though It does remember why. Killing? It’s just another fad. Whether you do it with your bare hands, an icepick to the eye, even with a gun…killing changes with the times. 

Hunting humans became so much easier when It looked human. If a human saw a tall, impeccably dressed man approaching them, they didn’t worry, they didn’t panic. There are animals that disguised themselves - and while It was not an animal? It certainly wasn’t human, either.

Let us not digress; sometimes, when the world became black and dark, and there was nothing but the sound of small scurrying things in the forest, It was sure It was a He. Perhaps had always been a He, but after so long, had forgotten as such.

As He crouched over the body He had caught in his vast web of endless arms and long, tombstone white fingers, that knowledge stirred in Him again - that almost knowing what He was, but not quite remembering. It did not stop Him, though: fingers as long and thin as dead twigs slithered into the hair of the somnolent form, sleeping the sleep of the unconscious, to dig past skin, past bone, into the soft pink of brain.

At that moment, what He was didn't matter. All that mattered was the thoughts He fed her, the little bits and pieces of rot and offal, the dire poison that would drive her mad.

The sort of thoughts that just made them keep coming back to Him. Whether they liked it or not.


End file.
